Conclusions
by Anachronism X
Summary: Sherlolly puff piece; Sherlock is drunk and pondering his thoughts on both The Woman and Molly when he reaches some interesting conclusions.


**Conclusively**

It was unlike him to pay any mind to such trivial subject matter, especially when there were far more pressing things to consider. Folders containing case files, jotted notes of half solved mysteries, and fragments of unfinished experiments cluttered the flat, but he could not bring himself to attend to any of them. Perhaps it was the drink he'd consumed, or simply the amount of it, a mostly empty bottle of scotch resting at his feet as if to support the theory.

If the alcohol had been the culprit, he'd simply blame Mycroft for his current contemplative state – the finely aged intoxicant had been a birthday gift from dear brother, after all.

Whatever the cause, there was no denying the somewhat perplexing thoughts he found his mind stubbornly refusing to turn away from – women. The fairer sex, the gift of Adam's rib, but not just females in general. His thoughts were far from nonspecific, though they were at odds with one another. His attention had been split between either of two women, the representations of which that his ego had conjured seeming to war in his mind.

First, there was The Woman. Apt title, if not a bit simplistic. He could not recall the last time he had heard from her, though he had great reason to suspect he never would again. Infrequency of contact aside, Irene Adler had dug her claws into the vulnerable softness he had not known existed in his mind, and she obviously held no intention of letting go. There was something about her which challenged Sherlock, set his teeth on edge with the worry and the frenetic anticipation that perhaps he would eventually find himself truly at a loss by her hand.

It was exhilarating to be in such a susceptible position, novel in the fact that he so rarely had a chance to experience the feeling. It lent her an air of danger, compounded by her elusive nature. There was also his programming as a biological male to be entranced on some level, albeit a baser and frightfully Neanderthal one, by the ample curves of her figure. He fancied that draw to The Woman least of all, viewing such an attraction as a sign of unbearable weakness, and chose to ignore that reasoning as much as possible.

And then there was the other force of female presence in his mind…

Molly Hooper.

She was entirely incapable of hiding her nervousness, unwilling to dull down her sarcasm, and seemed to exist in a constant state of anxiety. Somehow, these were not the telltale detractions to her character they would have been in the case of anyone else. She was far from the adversary Irene was, but there was still a certain sense that she might be able to prove herself the victor in another way; Molly was one of the few people who seemed to see through any facade or attempt at bravado he attempted to put on, issuing dismissal of any such foolishness with words that cut to the bone.

He had never even been particularly nice to the mousy woman, and yet, she had taken it upon herself to attach to him independent of any nonexistent encouragement. He considered likening her to a barnacle, but even that unflattering idea implied some sort of symbiosis, which he was sure he had not offered to Ms. Hooper.

And yet, he couldn't deny that he derived something – some unnamed _something_ – from her attention. He would never have guessed as much had he not felt some pang of yet another emotion he felt incapable of titling when her attention was taken away, placed elsewhere. At the time, he had chalked it up to his selfish nature; just because _he_ didn't want something didn't mean all the world was welcome to have it.

But how true could that have been, really? After all, it was not only the way she once looked at him that remained an imprint on his mind. It was the subtle lack of Tom in their conversations, the fact that she once lit up when he walked in the room. He missed being the object of her affection, which was as close as Sherlock could come to admitting that he cared for her in some capacity which extended beyond the bounds of consulting detective and pathologist.

If it came down to comparison and contrast between the two women, he would be forced to admit that Irene had never and would never look at him the way Molly did – or at least, had before. Irene's gaze was predatory, an artfully skilled predator assessing prey before recoiling to strike. And while it was far easier for him to admit to himself the intrigue she sparked in him, it was nearly impossible to acquiesce to feelings much warmer, the sort Molly's doe-eyed looks inspired.

They shared only one thing in common, and that was the fact that they were both entirely unavailable. Irene was little more than a ghost, a concept more than a concrete person who existed within the parameters of reality. Molly was set to be married to Tom, master of ill-timed jokes and possessor of what was quite obviously a lesser intelligence. Pondering the impossibility of either woman brought about the question of whether or not he was put off by their distance from him, and if so, did either absence bring with it more agitation than the other?

This was why Sherlock so frequently refrained from drinking, those overtly emotional and entirely distracting thoughts and imponderables humans were so apt to succumb to when intoxicated.

The Woman's absence was far more easily tolerated than Molly's. She was gone, truly absent in the realest sense of the word. She was not a part of his day to day routine, not a constant reminder of just how unreachable she was. Molly, on the other hand, was the breakable placed just out of reach on a shelf too high – easily gazed upon, nearly impossible to touch. He supposed he preferred that to a true absence of her in his life, though he could not rightly ascertain precisely what the purpose of that feeling was.

"Better than nothing, old top," he said aloud to no one, hiccupping as he looked into the now empty bottle of scotch.

He supposed that was something of a conclusion, in and of itself: an unfamiliar longing found deep at the bottom of a bottle in the silence of his 221B flat. After all, it was not The Woman's company he found himself missing as he allowed himself to succumb to the inviting embrace of his couch, nor her freckled face and lopsided ponytail that he saw as he shut his eyes.


End file.
